The Course of True Love
by wishesatmidnight
Summary: 'The course of true love never did run smooth' as Sherlock and John discover when a case takes them to Greece, which ensues quite an emotional and angst filled journey through the discovery of love. Filled with lots of angsty moments, words left unsaid and eventual Johnlock.
1. Pack Your Bags John!

**Chapter 1**

**Pack Your Bags John! We're Going to Greece!**

**A/N: So i'm on holiday at the moment and i've been wanting to write a holiday/away from Baker street fic for a while now - so here it is! Oh and to those of you who have been reading my other fic Our Little Paradise,don't worry, this is not me abandoning that fic for this one or anything hehe, this is simply some fun on the side, (which will still probably still have me up all night writing and perfecting) whilst i'm experiencing a little bit of writers block with the other one :p**

**Anyway, on with the story...**

It was on a normal, quiet Saturday morning in 221B that John was awoken by an excited Sherlock bustling into his room with a suit case, saying "Pack your bags John! We're going to Greece!"

John sighed.

Well, these spontaneous outbursts from Sherlock weren't exactly uncommon or unexpected. It was something you knowingly signed up for when agreeing to be flat mates with Sherlock Homes. And John loved it. But still, one day of normality and tea drinking, maybe getting into a good book or watching a bit of telly wasn't too much to ask for, was it?

Sherlock stood impatiently in the door way, "Come on, John! A case that's _finally_ worth my time! Oh _yes, _thank youMrs. Demetriou for causing someone to want to murder you so _elegantly._ I had been getting rather bored."

"You know, a normal person might express sadness towards a murder." John chastised.

"And what fun would that be?"

John laughed. He couldn't help himself. "None at all."

"Exactly. Now come on. The flight's in an hour." Sherlock walked out of John's room briskly, coat flapping behind him.

"What? An hour!" John shouted. "We'll never make it! Have you ever been to the airport before Sherlock? You have to _be_ there two hours before! Do you know all the procedures you have to go through? "

But Sherlock quickly popped his head round the door and simply said;"Mycroft."

_Oh._

Well he may be a pretentious dick, but that interfering and frankly worrying ability of his to get things done efficiently could come in handy sometimes.

It was an hour and a half later that John and Sherlock were sat on a plane to Greece; John reading his book he'd been meaning to get into for several months now, Sherlock tapping his fingers impatiently on the arm rest.

John watched Sherlock's eyes darting between various holiday goers; observing, deducing. One of his knees was now bouncing slightly.

Something wasn't right.

It was when the doors closed loudly and Sherlock's hand, which had previously been tapping the arm rest, viciously grabbed it, that John knew that something _definitely_ wasn't right.

"Sherlock, you okay?" He asked quietly.

"Me? Yeah. Fine. I'm just not particularly fond of planes. Or any kind of small spaces for that matter."

_Oh._

The plane began to drive along the run way, building speed. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly.

"I don't ever remember you being claustrophobic before…" John mused, thinking back to many a night spent waiting for hours on end, inside narrow alleys, on stake outs, or hiding inside tight closets when breaking into suspects flats…

"Yes well…it's just an irrational fear I picked up whilst I was…away." When Sherlock was away. That was how they referred to the period of time when Sherlock had John believe that he was dead to save John's life. It was a dark time for both of them and they only ever brought it up when they absolutely had to. Which was why John found it odd that Sherlock should do so now. Sherlock had told him next to nothing of what had actually happened while he was away. He had filled him in on the basics, but most of the details including things such as the scars he had received, and undoubtedly the scars he had given, remained unspoken of. John assumed that possibly Sherlock had deleted these details himself.

"Had a nasty run in with one of Moriarty's men on their private jet." Sherlock breathed, eyes still closed. John's hands clenched at that name.

"It's how I got that scar on my ankle. That plan didn't go too well, the jet ended up nearly crashing. Moriarty's man got away – jumped form the jet, with a parachute. I got him soon after though. But I've never much taken to planes since then."

It was then that the plane began to incline. Sherlock's grip on the handle tightened. John looked at him worriedly. Sherlock hadn't been the same since he'd returned. He had eventually gone back to his obnoxiously brilliant self with his snarky remarks and his sulking on the sofa in his blue robe and playing his violin late into the night. But there was something different. Little things like this. There were moments where he'd remember something and his eyes would glaze over, then he wouldn't speak for the rest of that day, retreating to his room and remaining there.

This type of Sherlock worried John. He could deal with a sulking Sherlock, and a Sherlock who was whining because he wanted his cigarettes. Even an insufferable Sherlock who hadn't had a case in days. But John didn't know how to deal with this Sherlock. He didn't know what one was to say to someone who had been through what Sherlock had. He didn't even know what half of that was.

But looking at his friend whose body was now completely stiff, and breathing shallow, he decided he had to do _something_.

"Here." John said, offering his hand out to Sherlock, who had opened his eyes at John's words and was looking down at his hand, frowning in confusion.

"Take my hand."

"But why?"

John stared at Sherlock incredulous, but he just stared back, equally as incredulous. Had nobody ever offered Sherlock their hand before? He decided he would need to explain.

"Well when I was younger, if I got scared or if I was hurt, my dad would tell me to take his hand and squeeze it as hard as I could, and I don't know how – but it helped."

Sherlock crinkled his nose at him. "That makes no logical sense."

The plane was getting faster now.

John looked down at his outstretched hand and then back at Sherlock, who was also looking down at John's hand. Sherlock then quickly took it in his and rested their hands on the arm rest, looking straight ahead fixedly.

John looked straight ahead also, realising that the situation was slightly awkward. He supposed this wasn't exactly the behaviour of flatmates, but then again, not much concerning the behaviour of their relationship was. They were more than just flatmates, both knew this. From the moment John killed a man to save Sherlock's life. The fatal question however, was how much more? John worried over this thought as the plane began inclining. But when the plane jolted and Sherlock squeezed John's hand hard, he smiled in triumph. It didn't matter whether this was the correct behaviour or not, in that moment Sherlock needed him and he would always be there for him, in whatever way he could, when he did.

Their hands remained joined throughout the remainder of the flight and after a while, Sherlock began to relax and he opened his eyes again, beginning to talk about all his theories on the case.

"More than a third of women are killed by their partners you know, but not this one."

"But I thought you said it was obvious that the partner had done it?"

"Exactly. It's _too_ obvious. And a murder this elegant would have been done by a murderer more cunning than to leave clues everywhere. I mean, the wedding ring on the side? Obvious. Too obvious. I don't know how, but the murderer managed to get the husbands wedding ring and leave it at the scene of the crime. Possibly they were close to the husband? Or the wife? Or both? Anyway, somebody knows that it is likely that the husband will be suspected first, and they're using this statistic to their advantage, for a fault many people have is seeing what you want to see, and missing what you really see. The murderer knows this."

John listens contentedly, proud of the way Sherlock's knee has stopped bouncing and his pulse steadies under John's fingertips.

However, as they get off the plane, they eventually release each other's hands - both immediately missing the contact, but neither verbalising this.

When they got to the little BnB in which they were staying, a little old Greek lady, who John had discovered was called Rosa, valiantly led them up the thin spiraled staircase, with her hunched back and shriveled shoulders, to their room. Yes. _Their_ room. Because there was only one room, with one bed. It had turned out that their room had been double booked and so they had been moved to another room, the only room left, which was of course; _the honeymoon suite._

The young girl at reception, who was Rosa's daughter by the looks of it, was positively smiling as she told them.

_How coincidental_. Thought John. _Only the honeymoon suite my arse._

The room was small and had only a cabinet with a mirror, an old TV protruding from the wall that Sherlock deduced hadn't worked in at least ten years, a small en suite bathroom with a pathetic shower, and a double bed which held the only indication towards it being a particularly romantic room; a single plaque in the shape of a hear which said "Love" on it. The bed was situated at the back of the room and looked as though it would just about fit two people in it. If they lay half on top of each other.

John stood in the door way and sighed, and then he was laughing. Sherlock looked around the room once and joined in with his deep baritone.

"Do you think" John wheezed, "that there is anyone, _anywhere_ who doesn't think were a couple?"

"I suppose people talk, the word spreads." Sherlock mused.

"People do little else." John smiled and Sherlock laughed and walked through into the room.

* * *

**So that's it for chapter 1, hope you enjoyed it! Chapter 2 is written and will be up soon!**

**Please review and let me know what you think so far,**

**Bye for now! :D**


	2. That's love, Sherlock

**Chapter 2**

**That's love, Sherlock.**

**A/N: So here's chapter 2! Thanks to anyone who has reviewed favourited or followed! You're all great! :D Anyway, enjoy...**

Although the BnB was quite decrepit, it was still cosy and quite homely. Rosa had a likeness to Mrs. Hudson which seemed to make Sherlock more agreeable to the place.

Once they'd settled and unpacked, they walked down into the village, in search of a restaurant and settled on a place called _Mama's House. _The food was delicious and in celebration of being able to get Sherlock to eat something, John ordered a bottle of red wine. To John's surprise, Sherlock joined him in drinking and they soon finished the bottle. Sherlock, again to John's bewilderment, ordered a second.

At first they discussed the case, in all seriousness, about the scene of the murder and the possible suspects – who could be close enough to the victim and her partner to steal his ring whilst he slept, and yet resent the wife enough to kill her in such an elaborate way.

But then, after a few glasses of wine, the conversation had slipped slightly.

"So John, there's one thing I just can't get my head around. It is clear that this murder was done because of love – or lack thereof…unrequited love possibly, but _why _John, do people kill for love? What is it about love that can turn the good bad? Or that can _bring_ goodness to the bad? For an intangible concept, it has the force of a hurricane. Tell me, have you ever been in a serious enough relationship with someone to know that you would kill for the love you felt for them. Have you ever _known_ that you would kill to keep it?"

John looked at him rather wide eyed. Well this was new. Never before had they spoken about something as intimate as love. Then again, never had they sat in a restaurant in Greece with one and a half bottles of wine in them, after quite a subtly emotional discussion on a plane, followed by four hours of hand holding, before.

John just shrugged in response to Sherlock's question, una of how to explain that he had killed for Sherlock and would kill again in a second to keep him in his life, without it sounding like it was breaching their boundary of 'just friendship'.

But Sherlock pried "Oh come on, you must have been with loads of people! Your friends don't call you three continents Watson for nothing, surely."

"How would you know about that?!" John spluttered.

"Oh please John you know that you can't keep secrets around me." Sherlock said almost pityingly.

"Oh I wouldn't be so sure…" John countered, annoyed. Sherlock didn't know _everything_. Like how right now, all John could think of was how exquisite the colour of Sherlock's eyes were tonight, ever changing – a beautiful mystery, just like Sherlock himself. Wait. Did he really just refer to Sherlock as _beautiful_? It must be the wine.

"Why? What are you hiding?" Sherlock asked with raised brow.

Well, that hadn't been his cleverest move.

"Oh nothing…I just meant…hypothetically. I could, if I wanted to…Anyway how could you _possibly_ know about that?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but considering the volume of wine he had in him right now, his skills of deduction weren't working as efficiently as he'd like. So he just answered John's question.

"You received a recent letter from one of your army friends in which he referred to you as thus."

John choked on his drink. "Jesus Sherlock! You can't just go rifling through my things like that!" His ears went a slight shade of pink as he averted his eyes and said "And how much of that letter did you err…read?"

"Well I was looking for something and your stuff was in the way. And judging by your reaction, I assume you are referring to the part where he mentions your brief drunken moment together one night in the safety of the darkness in Afghanistan, asking you to kindly never speak of it again or mention it to his soon to be _wife_…"

John swallows and his face also reddens. "Yes. Well. It didn't mean anything anyway…just some women-deprived army blokes fooling about. We'd had a lot to drink and…" He laughed nervously.

Sherlock sat silently, watching him; calculatingly. Deducing.

_Fuck_. John knew he was as good as an open book to Sherlock. This could only end badly.

Sherlock concentrated hard. This was important; there was a lot John wasn't saying.

"It was your first time with a man."

John looked away, reaching for the near emptying wine bottle.

"It meant more to you than him."

"It meant nothing. I'm not…can we just-?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as John took a generous sip of his wine.

"So, back to my original point, through out any of your relationships with your partners, would you seriously kill a man over something as _temporary_ and _fickle_ as love? I just don't understand it John. Why do people let themselves become slaves to love? _Sentiment_." He said the word with obvious distaste. "It's always been somewhat of a mystery to me."

John was quiet and still for a while as he thought over Sherlock's words and then he said, very quietly; "I killed a man for you, didn't I?"

But Sherlock immediately brushed it off with a wave of his hand "But that was for a _case_ John. That's different." He spoke in a frustrated voice. This was really getting to him.

"Sherlock you do know I didn't just kill a man for you so we could end the case and win the game right? Please tell me you don't think that."

"John, you hardly _knew_ me. How could that possibly have been an action of _sentiment _or…?"

"Sherlock I – look. I care about you. A lot. I did then as much as I do now. I did it to _protect_ you, you idiot." He added the last words rather fondly at the end.

Sherlock looked at him; brows furrowed, blinking furiously. John could almost hear the wheels of his brain turning. He then said slowly; "Oh. Well. Thank you, John." Then he moved in a bit closer to the table and grabbed his wine glass which was sitting by John's arm. As he took it, his long fingers brushed John's skin fleetingly. It was very brief contact, which ended the moment it started, but it sent a small, but powerful shiver down John's arm all the same. Sherlock took a sip of his wine now and smiled a small, tentative smile, eyes bright and set intensely on John's. It wasn't to just anyone that Sherlock gave this smile. This was not a feigned smile used for a case, or a smile to manipulate Molly into doing his every wish, this was a genuine smile. And John felt a swell of pride at the thought that it was John who had brought it to Sherlock's face. But there was also another feeling swelling inside him, one that he usually managed to push down before he could allow himself to consider what this feeling really was.

"What are friends for?" John said, smiling back tightly and bringing his hand back slightly, disguising it by taking his own glass and sipping it.

At this Sherlock's smile faltered, only slightly, but John still saw it and was confused by it, but before he had time to think over it, Sherlock was gesturing to John's now empty glass and saying "More wine?"

This probably wasn't a good idea, his guard was already slipping slightly. But then again, when had John Watson ever been the type of man to take the safe option?

"Er yeah, go on then."

Sherlock called over the waiter and requested another bottle.

"So, I think we've delved far enough into my sex life for one evening, but you've told me nothing of yours. That seems hardly fair." John said bravely with his next sip of wine.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing. John looked on at him, waiting. Then the waiter came with their wine and Sherlock poured John's, then his own. Taking a long sip, he began; "What would you like to know?"

John shifted in his seat and took a sip from his own glass.

"Okay. Let me see. Erm…Right. How many people have you been with…sexually?"

Sherlock exhaled and then said "Four. Two at the age of sixteen when I was at boarding school; one of which was experimentation – out of curiosity as to what made all young people so addicted to it. And another for a case I was trying to solve."

John laughed at that, of course Sherlock was solving cases at the age of sixteen, what else would he be doing?

"You started young didn't you." Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued;

"I needed to see this boys chest and upper thigh for the cigarette burns which would prove that he was the one who beat up the homeless man outside the local pub, who would always be found smoking cigarettes or asking for money to buy them. The man had a cigarette in hand when they found him and was proudly telling anyone who would listen of the way he had managed to singe his attacker with the end of his cigarette twice in the chest and thigh, before the boy took off with the rest of his pack. He was lying in the street for hours, beaten within an inch of his life, nobody took any notice of him. He died the next morning. Blood loss." At this, Sherlock's face had turned rather sombre. This worried John, Sherlock wasn't one to feel much empathy for victims. Regardless of how heinous the crime. John wondered if it was the fact that the man had nobody when he needed them the most. He'd just been left to lie in his own blood, uncared for, unloved. _You've got me Sherlock. _John thought. _You aren't alone._

But Sherlock adjusted himself with a mask of indifference and continued;

"Then one in my mid-twenties - again for a case and finally one the year before I met you. It was um…with a supplier friend…when I was using. I err...was a bit out of it, took a bit more than my usual amount. Not one of my _proudest_ moments.

One was a female. The rest male. I have come to the conclusion that I certainly prefer the latter. Anything else?" He finished his glass and raised his eyebrows at John, his face remaining unreadable.

Those last few words sent a flutter through John's stomach, but he ignored it adamantly.

"Oh. Well, thanks…for that. You didn't have to tell me all that you know."

"Yes well, I suppose I do see how it is quite unfair how I know all about your past and yet you knew nothing of mine."

"Yes…well…thanks. It's nice - knowing more about you that is. Only there is one thing…"

Sherlock looked warily at him "Go on."

"Well…does that mean then…that you've never slept with someone you…loved?"

"Does that make a difference?"

"Well of course it does!"

"Have _you_ ever had sex with someone you love?"

"Well with someone I loved at the time, yes. And _trust me,_ there's a difference."

"I don't see how. The mechanics are exactly the same -"

"_Yeah, _but it's _different_."

"_How_?" Sherlock was leaning in, looking at John in intense concentration.

John squirmed slightly under the weight of his gaze.

"You really don't know do you?"

"Well that's why I'm asking!"

"Alright, alright. Well, when it's with someone you love…there's a certain _intimacy _that you don't get with your average one night stand. It _means _more, it becomes _more_ than just casual sex and….it's _different_."

Sherlock sighed in frustration, "I still fail to see how that can make a difference."

"Well of course you wouldn't get it because it's something that you have to _try_, to understand."

"Well that's hardly a possible experiment. How am I to perform it if the subject has to be someone I love, when I can't understand why people love each other or what love is until I understand the difference between having sex with someone I love and someone I don't to see what the difference is!"

"That's love Sherlock. It's not something you can measure or predict for probability. It doesn't _follow_ patterns. And above all, it doesn't make a fraction of sense."

Sherlock looked at him for a second, but it was such a gaze of such intensity that it certainly felt like a very long second to John.

He then leaned in and whispered "Well that's just _stupid_."

At this, John let out a high, mirthful laugh. To which Sherlock joined in with this low baritone. When they'd finished their outlet of sheer happiness they just sat there smiling, never breaking eye contact.

John felt his skin tingle slightly under Sherlock's gaze – no, it must have been all the wine. In fact, how much had they had? John couldn't even remember.

"It's getting quite late. Would you like to head back?"

"Ah yes, back to our one bed in our one room." He laughed.

"Don't worry John. I'm not a snorer."

* * *

**So again, the next chapter is written - i'm just going to edit it and stuff first :)**

**Reviews are much appreciated! So if you find the time, by all means, let me know what you think!**

** Thanks,**

**:D**


	3. Be Careful With My Heart

**Chapter 3**

**Be Careful With My Heart**

**A/N: So, we've reached chapter 3, i'm nt exactly sure how long this fic will be as it was supposed to be a cure for boredom whilst on holiday...but now it's sort of expanded to being out of my control haha! I guess i'll just keep on writing until I run out of ideas for it?**

**Anyway, on with the story...**

John giggled, as they made their way out of the restaurant after Sherlock had paid for the meal – refusing to accept any of John's money. _"This one's on me, John."_

It was very dark now and the walk back to the BnB was _very_ steep and _very_ uneven.

As they were walking John stumbled slightly but before he fell, a strong pair of arms wrapped tightly around his waist; catching him from behind.

"Careful John, anyone would think you were drunk." Sherlock whispered teasingly, breath tickling John's ear.

"I am not!" John protested but he couldn't help a small giggle leaving his lips. "Okay, maybe a bit." Sherlock was still holding him, his chin resting on John's shoulder, just _holding_ him.

John wasn't sure if this was the usual behaviour of flat mates but he wasn't complaining. Sherlock's body was warm against his. They fit perfectly against one another. It felt so right. He leaned into the touch, remaining silent.

"John?" Sherlock asked, quietly.

"Yeah." His eyes were closed in contentment as he replied.

Sherlock lifted his chin, looking up to the dark sky, lit only by the thousands of tiny stars, glowing above them. John followed his gaze.

"Do you really think that there is someone out there for everyone? That everybody has someone that they are destined to fall in love with, that everybody will get the chance? Does everyone have another half out there, just waiting to find them." Sherlock sounded rather distant as he spoke, and then he added wistfully; "Or is love only a blessing given to those worthy of it?"

John turned around at this, momentarily forgetting how close Sherlock was to him. And so when he faced him he found their faces to be very close. He looked up at Sherlock with fierce intent and said "_Everyone_ is worthy of love Sherlock."

Sherlock looked down into John's eyes and John swore he could see a deep sadness rooted within them. "I wish I could believe that. But I have found that love doesn't quite like me much."

"How can you even say that? Do you know how amazing you really are? It would be a _privilege_ for someone to love you, Sherlock. And don't let anyone _ever_ convince you otherwise."

"I'm afraid John, that you are alone in holding that particular view."

"Well that's because nobody else _knows_ you like I do. The _real_ you. Not the person you choose to show the rest of the world. Not the high-functioning, unfeeling, sociopath. No, I know you for real Sherlock. And I know you feel - just like the rest of us. You're just afraid of it. But you know what? So are the rest of us! We just pretend we know what we're doing but really, we have no _bloody_ idea. In fact you couldn't have been more right, we aren't in control of it, we are all just slaves to love. And there's nothing we can do about it. So we just continue loving one another, with our broken, crooked hearts. Because that's all we _can_ do."

"Has anyone ever told you John, you have quite a way with words." Sherlock smiled at him, leaning in to him slowly, eyes travelling down to the line of John's lips. John swallowed, looking into Sherlock's bright eyes which were now very dilated and staring directly into his.

_Oh my God, is he…is he about to kiss me?! _John felt a sudden rush of excitement and fear flood through him in tandem.

"You should find a job in the writing industry." He purred, leaning in even closer, their lips now almost touching, John could feel Sherlock's breath on his lips. It sent a wave of heat through him. "Start a blog even." _Great now he's smirking at me with those beautiful lips - Wait no just lips...very male...not beautiful, lips._

"Ha, no this is just the wine talking. You should see my writing without a bottle of red in me." He joked nervously.

But this wasn't the right thing to say apparently, as Sherlock's smile suddenly fell and he withdrew his face suddenly, looking away. "Yes. Of course it is."

John felt his stomach drop, his body instantly missing the contact. "Sherlock?" But Sherlock had already began walking again.

"Come on. Best get back to the room. Rosa won't be happy with us getting in too late and waking the whole place."

John frowned and ran after him, grabbing his hand and pulling him back. Sherlock stopped but didn't look at him. John could see only the side of his face, but his eyes looked distant.

"And since when have you ever cared for what others thought exactly?"

Sherlock turned to look at him angrily. He let out a sharp breath; "Since I met _you_. John. Since you came in and _fucked_ with everything!"

John stared at him, hurt.

"Oh so _that's_ how you see it, is it?"

"Everything was so much_ easier _when you weren't around! I didn't care for anyone and they didn't care for me! _Simple_. But then you came along, trying to make me _feel_, to care. When you _knew_ I didn't want that. Because caring _hurts_ John! And I don't need it!"

"And you preferred living that way then? _Alone_." John retorted.

"Well it was certainly easier!"

"Well you know what, I'm sorry I came into your life Sherlock. I'm sorry I made you _feel_. And I'm sorry I made it so much harder for you! But there's nothing I can do about that now. So I guess for now, you're stuck with me."

Sherlock looked down at him suddenly, incredulous for a brief moment; "For now?"

"Yes. For _now_ we're stuck on an island together but now I see that I'm such an inconvenience to you, I'll leave you be when we get back and you can see if that makes life any better for you!"

Sherlock just stared at him, eyes wide, then he recovered and shouted; "Fine!"

"Fine." John said.

John's hand slipped from Sherlock's and his face set in a cold glare. Sherlock watched his hand fall to his side and then continued only to watch as John turned on his heel and started walking furiously back the way they'd came.

He tried to remain unaffected, but then he shouted despite himself; "John! Where are you going?"

"For a walk!" John snarled over his shoulder. Sherlock stood watching John's form slowly disappear over the hill, terrified.

_Oh God what have I done?_

John was walking away from him and he was too bloody proud to stop him. He eventually decided that it was best to leave John to cool off and headed back to the room. John would come back.

He had to.

When he got back to the BnB, Rosa smiled at him warmly, but on seeing that he was alone asked "You're boyfriend where?" He ignored her and walked up the stairs to their room. He walked in and didn't bother turning the light on, lying on the small bed in the darkness, thinking.

He was being stupid. Why was he being stupid? He wasn't usually stupid. There was just something about John that made Sherlock do stupid things sometimes. There was something about John that made Sherlock do lots of things that he wouldn't have done without him…

_"It would be a privilege to love you." _John's words had gone straight to his heart. And they had…_stirred_ something within him. Something new to him. Foreign…but not altogether unpleasant.

But that wasn't John speaking in his right mind. As he had kindly reminded Sherlock before he had gone too far. John was intoxicated. It didn't mean anything. People say a lot of great things when they're drunk. It doesn't mean any of them are true.

He lay there thinking over the whole conversation. It may have been the drink talking, but he _wanted_ to believe what John said. He _so badly_ wanted it to be true.

He'd never been one of those fools to be taken in by the notion that love conquers all. He knew that time was the one true infinite concept – not something as fickle as love. All lives end, all hearts are broken…caring is not an advantage. He knew this, he _knew_. He knew love was dangerously deceptive, that sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side.

_And yet_...since he'd met John he'd been slowly changing, his hope that maybe love could conquer anything – including a once cold heart, had been growing without his knowing and it had now morphed into an irrepressible force.

He no longer just desired for it to be true, he needed it.

It was on this thought, an hour after their argument, that John's form appeared in the doorway of the dark room and Sherlock almost whimpered in relief that his friend had come back to him. Any sane man would have been long gone by now.

_But not John. _He reassured himself. _John always comes back. _

John stood in the doorway and sighed into the darkness, unmoving. And for a terrifying moment Sherlock thought he was about to announce that he was leaving. But then John's voice sounded in the darkness. "Sherlock?"

"John." He replied, wincing as he heard the slight crack of emotion in his voice.

John then shut the door, making his way over to the little bed at the back of the room blindly. Sherlock remained in his lying position, on his back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His eyes were open and bright in the dark. He kept a steady gaze at the ceiling as John removed his jeans and lifted the covers slightly, climbing in.

As John got in, the bed being so small meant that their bodies met straight away; John's chest against Sherlock's side. The sudden warmth of John's body against his drew out a tiny, almost imperceptible sigh of pleasure from him.

"I'm sorry." John whispered, breath ghosting Sherlock's neck as he spoke. Sherlock swallowed hard.

"I shouldn't have walked off."

Sherlock turned to face him, his body lying parallel with John's. Like their lives had been. Running parallel to each other, until one fault, one twist of fate had caused them to suddenly collide in a fantastic accident.

Sherlock had been having this conversation in his head repeatedly since they'd fought and so he responded immediately; "No John. _I'm_ sorry. You had every right to be annoyed. I – I didn't mean I wanted you to leave." He turned to face John, "I would _never_ want that."

"Well good, because I'm not going anywhere." John smiled warmly at him, placing a hand over one of Sherlock's which were resting between them. Sherlock's breath caught.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Sherlock's other hand was now fiddling with John's shirt, fingers gracing his torso lightly. John lay still, breathing in contentment. The moment was so peaceful, so _right_.

_How, _Sherlock thought_, could two people be so perfectly happy together, so right for each other, if it wasn't right? _Right now, lying there with John, Sherlock realised that he was experiencing _love_.

He had never been in love before so he couldn't quite place what this feeling inside him had been, it had taken him a while to figure it out. But now, in this moment, he finally understood what those people had been singing about, why men killed for love, how love itself could kill a man. Sherlock thought that being in love was possibly the most beautifully painful feeling he had ever experienced, like a bittersweet dream - but unrequited love? Even the thought of it…was soul crushing. He had to know. He couldn't bare it any longer. He had to know.

"John?"

John's eyes were closed but he hummed in acknowledgement.

"I have to know. What you said before. About me. Did you…did you really mean it?" John opened his eyes at this and was met with Sherlock's; wide and earnest.

John couldn't get over how vulnerable he looked right then. His heart depending on John's answer. John had a responsibility to Sherlock as his best friend. Sherlock was giving him his heart, trusting him to be careful with it. Being close to Sherlock was like trying to hold water in the cup of your palm. One wrong movement and you lost him forever. He really was incredibly sensitive. He just wore such a well-practised mask of coldness that even _he_ forgot the fragile man underneath sometimes.

John now placed his hand over Sherlock's heart. "Of course I did. You are so incredibly special. I care more for you than I have for anyone."

Sherlock let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding and smiled broadly. John couldn't help but smile back when faced with such a beautiful smile, and nudged Sherlock's knee fondly with his own.

"I still thank my lucky stars that I found you. Before you, Sherlock – I was broken. A lost soldier. And I didn't think that I'd ever be _right_ again, you know? But you did it. You fixed me. I don't know how…but well, I owe you my _life_, Sherlock." Sherlock felt his heart swell, he adjusted his hand so that it too was resting over John's heart – he never thought he'd be so grateful for the beating of an organ in his life.

"You're my best friend."

Sherlock's heart fell. _No. No no no. You could have just left it at that. It was so perfect._

"Yes." He said, smiling stiffly, while his heart was screaming in agony. A single tear escaped his tortured eyes but his smile didn't falter. He would not break in front of John. He wouldn't make John feel guilty for his own stupidity in allowing love to claim his heart and burn it in front of him. He would not allow John to pity him. He turned over and lay on his back, breathing shallowly then sat up, pulling back the covers, needing to get out. Escape this room, escape this feeling, escape John.

But before he could get out of the bed a strong hand grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"No Sherlock. You're doing it again. Something's wrong and you're freezing me out. Don't push me away Sherlock. Please. Something's hurting you I can see it. You can hide from the rest of the world behind smiles and even cold remarks, but I know you Sherlock. And you can't fool me. Not with this. So tell me. Tell me what's wrong."

Sherlock looked back at him, hesitating, then all the pain and the anger, all the feeling that had been bubbling beneath the surface, exploded from him in a fury he couldn't control.

"You are not _seriously_ still calling this 'friendship'! Come _on_ John! It's a complete understatement – an utter insult to our relationship!"

John was taken aback. He blinked and his cheeks reddened slightly. "Sherlock…" He began but Sherlock immediately cut him off.

He leaned back down on the bed, definitely invading John's personal space. "What would you do if I were to kiss you right now?" He began leaning in slowly.

John's eyes widened but he didn't back away.

"You've got time, move away. If this is still friendship to you, then stop me before my lips reach yours." He whispered.

"Best do it now John, because when I start I don't think I'll be able to stop." He warned, eyes never leaving John's.

He crawled over the small space between them and placed his hands either side of John's head bracing himself and leaning in even closer, eyes dark. John stared at him, transfixed. His tongue ran over his bottom lip nervously.

The next few seconds were a blur of movement and darkness as Sherlock suddenly found himself being pushed back into the mattress forcefully. For a brief moment he thought John had rejected him, until he felt a pair of eager lips find his.

He felt his arms being dragged up either side of him, until he noticed that now John had _his_ arms on either side of Sherlock, pinning _his_ hands at his head.

Sherlock's lids fluttered closed as he lost himself in the feeling of John's lips moving against his. _Oh. _This was the best escape from his mind he had ever felt. It was like floating, but knowing something was tying you to the ground, keeping you connected to something. When used to use drugs as his escape he would sometimes experience the terrifying feeling of being cut off from the world and floating away, further and further, until he was so far that he couldn't return. Like nothing was grounding him.

But not with this. This time he had his anchor tide to his kite.

John's tongue ran along Sherlock's lip and then tentatively slid between them.

_Oh._

Kissing had never felt quite so wonderful before. The mechanics were the same but _never_ had it felt like _this_. Never had he lost himself in the sensation so deeply. John was right. When it was with somebody you loved…it changed. It became something _more_ than just kissing. It was exhilarating.

Sherlock's hands were out of John's grip and threading through John's hair, running down his neck before he could even process he was doing so.

He groaned against John's lips and John responded by running his hands along Sherlock's torso adoringly. Sherlock then brought his hands back to John's chest and began unbuttoning his shirt. John's breath caught as cold hands ran over his bare chest delicately, caressing his skin, he then broke their mouths apart and bit down hard on the patch if skin between John's neck and collar bone. John jolted and bit his lip to refrain from crying out…but something interrupted them in their moment of bliss.

Something sounded in the distance, what was that? Knocking? There was a _knocking_ at the door.

_Shit. _That sound dragged him mercilessly back to reality. What was he _doing_? He had _promised_ himself he wouldn't let this happen. He knew the consequences of letting himself love Sherlock Holmes, and yet now he had freely walked right into the trap.

John tore his lips from Sherlock's instantly.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was hoarse and low and it sent a thrill through John at the knowledge that he had caused that. _No, focus._

"Someone's at the door!" he whispered, unable of much more.

"What?" Sherlock looked at the door, which was now sounding again with an insistent knock. He had been so utterly lost in his world of just him and John that he hadn't noticed it until then.

John scrambled up, and stumbled towards the door, looking back at Sherlock for one fleeting moment with an apologetic look, before opening the door...

* * *

**So!... I hope you're all happy with the little Johnlock moment hehe ;D I promise there will be more of that to come! So yeah, please review - it keeps me going with the chapters I end up writing at like 2 in the morning ;D**

**Thanks again to anyone who has been keeping with this story, **

**Bye for now!**

**:D**


	4. The Unexpected Visitor

**Chapter Four**

**The Unexpected Visitor**

**A/N: ****Sorry I've taken so long to update! I'm afraid life rather rudely got in the way :p **

**Anyway...**

"John!"

"_Greg_?"

Lestrade looked him up and down for a second and judging by the raised eye brows and the smirk that was now playing about his face, he realised that they had been taking this man's detective skills for granted all these years.

"Well, there I was under the impression that you'd come here on a case, but someone looks like they've had a lot of fun on the side…"

John blushed and attempted to feign a laugh as he said "What do you mean?"

"Well John, I have to say, you look well and truly shagged mate. Have you got a girl round here while Sherlock's been off on one?" He joked, looking around John's shoulders.

John laughed; a short sharp sound and stood squarely in the doorway but a low voice called from the back of the dark room. "John? Who is it? Come back to bed."

John stiffened and chanced a weary glance back at Greg, who was now gawping back at him. John hesitated, unsure of how to explain this. But instead went for just replying calmly; "It's Greg."

"Whose Greg?" Called Sherlock, ready to slam the door on whoever had dared to disturb them.

"Sherlock." Lestrade sighed resignedly.

"Oh." Sherlock grunted.

"It's erm…we were just….the case yes – it's not…what are you doing here?" He finished. He was flustered. It wasn't that he was ashamed of being caught kissing Sherlock Holmes. It was because that was just it. It was just a kiss. It didn't mean anything, not to Sherlock.

John knew he was head over heels for Sherlock. Had bee since the day they'd met. That kiss for John was something he felt like he had been waiting for his whole life. Kissing Sherlock, touching him, being touched by him, was like living in a euphoric dream. It was pure ecstasy. But also something his heart had yearned for so badly that he could almost cry with relief when their lips finally met.

But for Sherlock this was just a cure for boredom while stuck on an island, on a case that was going nowhere. Sherlock worked on impulse. He didn't consider the emotional consequences of those around him, or even himself. It wasn't out of meanness really; it just wasn't in his nature.

John had never shown his feelings throughout the whole time he'd known Sherlock because he'd known exactly how it would end. Sherlock would get bored of him eventually. As he did everything. It would be wonderful at first; passionate and fast and intense and more than life – rather like Sherlock himself.

But then Sherlock would realise that John was just…John. The worry that he wasn't enough to entertain Sherlock's racing mind was a constant worry of his, always plaguing his thoughts. Sherlock was an all or nothing kind of creature, and he knew he would only lose him in the end.

So this was why he wanted to figure out for himself first, whether he was going to give Sherlock his heart when he knew he would only have it given back to him in pieces by the end.

A part of him whispered softly '_it would be worth it – to have even a _moment _where you were Sherlock's entire world, even if you lost him in the next.'_

But he knew that wasn't true. Sherlock had left him once and it nearly damn well killed him.

But it didn't.

That was the merciless part of it. At that point, life was so dark for him that death would have been seen as a blessing. But he wasn't even granted the comfort of death. The nothingness. The peace. It was all a light at the end of a tunnel he wasn't soon to reach.

Oblivion called to him sometimes through the echo of his dreams. And yes, he had been tempted. To end it all. To greet death himself willingly. He had been tempted to follow the hidden shortcut passage that would take him to the end of his tunnel.

But something had always stopped him from following Sherlock.

And in retrospect, John almost found it funny how the only person who could do that, was Sherlock.

There was still something in him, something echoing in his bones, residing in his heart, flickering in his mind...that told him that someday Sherlock _would_ come back to him.

It was only a glimpse of hope, but when it came down to it, and he had those thoughts about the end, his hope still stood ten times stronger than his pain.

And so that is why he had kept going. Because really, your hope is all you have left in the end. Nobody can steal your hope from you, and no one can stop you from having it. And John Watson clung to his last remaining glimmer of it, - his life literally depending on it - and he'd be damned if anyone we're to stop him.

But then Sherlock came back. He returned and they got over it. Well, if the term to 'Get over something' meant; they did not speak about it. John didn't tell Sherlock how much it hurt to be betrayed. To be fooled. And Sherlock in return did not tell John how he had gone to sleep each night with the thought of John as the last in his mind - in some desperate attempt to dream of the person who encompassed his world, and had now given a new meaning to the word home for Sherlock. (The location no longer mattered. His home was wherever John was now.) If it meant, suppressed emotions and words left unspoken, and heart break hidden in half smiles, then yes, they had 'gotten over it'.

Sherlock attempted an elaborate explanation as to why he had been gone of course, but after the dark look he had seen in John's eyes, he discontinued that approach and they decided that _that_ was the last to be said of it.

They moved on.

But John didn't think his heart would be able to do it another time over and still come out of the other side. If Sherlock left him again that would be it. John Watson was a man who'd had his heart broken and half repaired it, so that it was functioning, but scarred. But he was not a man who could take that kind of heart break twice and live to tell the tale.

So he had to decide. Love and lose, or never love at all. He could walk away now. Maintain his friendship with Sherlock of course, but never let it develop into something else. He could train himself to push down his feelings again, ignore them. He'd been doing it since the day he met Sherlock anyway. Why stop now? It would be the safer option, for how can you miss something you never had?

But what John was beginning to realise was that there wasn't going to be much choice in the matter.

"There's been a lead on the case. They wanted to send one of the team to inform you and to grant you access to the location…but I thought – well – for their sake as well as yours, that it was better if it was me."

"Oh you just wanted a holiday away from your wife and her bit on the side, which you _still_ haven't confronted her about it seems." Sherlock snapped from on the bed; annoyed that someone had come between them when it was all going so perfectly.

"_Sherlock_." John reprimanded, and Sherlock fell quiet, instead staring resolutely forward at the bleak wall.

John then chuckled nervously "Well it's er, good to see you. He's pleased too you know." He said, glancing back at Sherlock. Then after seeing the dark look on Sherlock's face he added; "Deep down."

"Yeah you too." Greg said slowly, still recovering from what he thought he had walked in on…what he _had _walked in on.

"Can I come in?"

John thought he could almost hear the roll of Sherlock's eyes from the back of the room.

"Oh sorry, yeah." John stepped aside. Sherlock scowled at Lestrade and said "This had better be good."

As Lestrade walked past him, John quickly redid his buttons. Then he flattened his hair and readjusted his collar, but on doing so his neck stung slightly – the bite mark.

_Shit._

He did up his collar to as high as it would go and then shut the door and turned a lamp on, taking in a measured breath.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had made no attempt to right himself whatsoever, and was sat at the top of the bed only half under the covers, top looking ravaged, lips pink and swollen and hair ruffled. John even thought he saw a slight smirk playing about the corner of his lips.

_Smug bastard._

_"_Well," Greg started hesitantly. "I suppose we'll start by running over some of the facts about the husband, considering he's our main suspect."

Sherlock simply raised his eyebrows in response, arms folded petulantly.

"He was the owner of the local night club here. Word goes around he's not a very appreciated boss – didn't treat his workers with respect...especially the female ones – apparently he didn't know when to keep his hands to himself. So, evident lack of respect for women…though I suppose that's not really enough to suggest foul play at this point."

He opened the case file he had been holding and began flicking through his notes. "Erm let's see…yes, cause of death – now here's where the evidence starts pointing fingers. But it's complicated. It appears she was drowned in the tub in the ensuite, but on the side of the sink, so as not to get it lost in the water or down the plug, a single golden ring was taken off and left. Definitely a man's. But the victim's was taken. Either that or she lost it."

"Well the latter would say wonders for their marriage." Sherlock said, sounding bored. But he didn't fool John. He knew Sherlock was literally buzzing inside with excitement - eager to prove Lestrade wrong about the husband being the killer.

"Yes. So anyway we can't match them to see if this was indeed the husbands – and he is gone – as if into thin air, so we can't even match it to the size of his finger for proof. But the fact that he's run off somewhere doesn't really help his case. It only make him more suspicious."

"Unless it was a matter of being _chased_ rather than running…or being _hidden_ rather than hiding…" Sherlock mused.

John watched as the wheels of that clever mind raced and spun.

"Yes… I suppose…" Lestrade said, unsure of where Sherlock was headed. And then he continued;

"She was then dragged into their bedroom and splayed on the bed. We have reason to believe she was possibly still alive by this time – unconscious and very _close_ to death – but alive. And the killer wasn't done yet. Her hands were bound together and tied to the head board –"

"Implying the killer foresaw a struggle…" Sherlock interrupted.

"Implying they didn't think she was dead…" John added, trying to follow Sherlock's impossibly fast train of thought. "So that's why you think she was still alive?"

"Yes." Lestrade said gravely. "Now this is a little strange, and I'm not even sure if it's helpful…but I know you like the odd bits so I'll tell you. While this murder was taking place, a few of the people staying in the other rooms of this floor said they–"

"Wait. The _other rooms of this floor? _You mean the murder…it took place here? In this BnB...On this floor?!"

"Well..._yeah_…didn't Sherlock tell you? That's why we're _here_. Their house was getting an extension, so they were staying in this place." He then turned to Sherlock "Although, I didn't know you'd actually _book a room_ here Sherlock. You were supposed to book the one down the road and then come here just to inspect the crime scene _later_. It is a bit grim Sherlock, even for you."

"Well what would have been the point of staying _there_ when all the evidence was lying _here_?" Sherlock said, exasperated.

"I thought him actually offering to book the place for once was too good to be true." John muttered. "Great. We're staying in a murder house. Brilliant. You know what Sherlock, next time I'm leaving the holiday booking completely up to you! You've _really_ got an eye for the locations haven't you?"

Then a thought struck him. "Wait. It wasn't…bloody hell. Sherlock it wasn't this room was it?! She wasn't killed on our…I mean _this_ bed?! I mean we...well..."

"Of course not John." Sherlock said calmly. John exhaled in relief.

"Why would I destroy such vital evidence by lying on it?"

"Well. I'm glad that's your reasoning." John replied deadpan.

Sherlock just looked at him, confused.

"It's the one next door."

John sighed.

"Anyway…once you two are done behaving like an old...and _slightly twisted_ married couple…"

He received two equally dark glares.

"The strange part was, that while the murder was taking place, some other residents said they heard music…a song coming from the room. Someone was singing. They said it was beautiful, but there was a sort of melancholy feel to it. Maybe he made his wife sing. After she came around…"

Sherlock smiled, his eyes flashing calculatingly.

There was pause and then, as no-one seemed like they were going to speak, John asked, "So how did she finally die?"

"Strangulation. Same type as the rope binding her hands. Odd though…they didn't tie the feet, would have made it more difficult for them if the victim had woken and struggled."

"She wanted to restrain her, but also see her fight. Knowing the victim would not win, but liking to see her struggle…she wanted to watch her writhe…helpless, like a fish out of water…it was a power play." Sherlock said quickly.

"She? You keep saying she. What makes you think it was a she?"

"_Oh_ can't you see it?!" Sherlock shouted, throwing his hands up. He then jumped out of the bed gracefully. "Of course it was a woman! This is a women's war! All the cunning and the spite. The envy. The _revenge_. The clever planning…It wasn't the victim with the alluring voice…no, it was our killer!"

"But the husband…" Lestrade started.

"Oh he was a spineless sod. He liked his women _yes_, and despite loving his wife, he was far from loyal to her…but a killer? No. Didn't have it in him."

"And you got all that from what exactly?" John asked, incredulous.

"When I was paying for our meal. The owner of the restaurant knew the victim very well, they were best friends in fact. She knew an awful lot about the troubles of _Kate and her cheat of a husband. _And _his slut on the side from the club. _It would surprise you how much one can get from mindless gossip when you ask the right questions. For instance, I'm not sure Bella realised that her final bitter statement had in fact told me who the killer was. Well, almost."

"_What_?" Lestrade asked, taken aback, "What did she say?!"

Sherlock smiled. "_That woman's like sweet poison. Luring people to her with her voice of an angel - but take caution, she's a mind as sharp as a dagger that one. And she's not disinclined to using it."_

"So this girl…with the voice…is our killer?" John asked slowly.

"Precisely."

"But…I don't get it…how are we supposed to find her?"

"Ever been clubbing Lestrade?" Sherlock suddenly said brightly, grabbing his suit jacket.

"Well…er…not since my younger days…"

"John?"

"Not really a clubbing sort of guy." John said stiffly, straightening and pushing out his chest slightly.

"Well," Sherlock, now with shoes and coat on, opened the door. "There's a first time for everything." He winked and walked out the door.

John watched, wide eyed, as he disappeared out the door and then turned to Greg who shrugged and said, "He may be mad, but I suppose that's a side affect of genius." John laughed and put on his shoes.

"I could do with a drink anyway." Lestrade added as they left the room and found Sherlock waiting impatiently for them out the front.

"Do you even know where the local club is?" Greg asked, walking ahead.

"I know it's general direction." Sherlock called from behind him.

"Great." John muttered.

Sherlock leaned in towards John and whispered, lips gracing his ear; "Don't worry John, I can think of plenty to do on the way."

John's eyes fluttered closed briefly before he remembered. _No. Don't. _He pulled away and stopped walking, not looking at Sherlock. But Sherlock didn't take his eyes off John, brows furrowed in confusion, stopping too.

Greg, on noticing they'd both stopped behind him, turned and said "What is it?" But Sherlock just met John's eyes once, in a quick, but evidently hurt glance. Then he stalked off ahead.

"Shit." John muttered, walking after him, but staying behind. Greg met John's pace.

"What's going on between you two John? I mean...what did I walk in on back there?"

"Nothing Greg. There is nothing going on. We just...look, there's nothing to talk about."

"No...something's changed. You don't have to tell me...but - look John. You can lie to me about how you feel. You can lie to Sherlock about it. But you can't keep on lying to yourself John. You just can't."

John looked at him with exhausted eyes. "I know." He said sadly. "I know."

"So why don't you just tell him?"

"Because I know what happens after. After his interest is piqued and slowly begins to decline. After he gets _bored_. I know I get left behind. I know that's my ending. But I think that maybe...if I don't let myself...feel that way about him..in that way...then it won't hurt as much when I lose him."

"Oh John. Do you not see the way he looks at you? You're not just another cure for boredom for him."

John suddenly stopped and looked Greg straight in the eyes.

"Can you promise me that Sherlock won't leave me? Because I can't!" He said, voice rising slightly. Then he added gravely, "After all, he's done it before."

Greg sighed. "That was _different_. He did that for _you_ didn't he?"

"Can you _promise_, Greg?"

He sighed again, then said quietly; "No."

"Exactly. So Greg, _that_ Is why I don't tell him. That is why I will never tell him. Why I can never let myself love him."

"I'm afraid John, that it may be too late for that."

John pursed his lips and then walked on, not looking at Greg.

* * *

**So, that was chapter 4...hope you enjoyed :D **

**Reviews are always a pleasure to read! So please let me know what you think! :D**

**I'll try and update next as soon as I can!**

**Thanks guys!**


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